There was no cupidity in La Boulaye's nature, and even the prospect of an independent fortune would have weighed little with him had it not been backed by the other argument she employed touching the terror that would be ever with her did they dwell in France. He stood deep in thought, his hand to his brow, thrusting back the long black hair from his white forehead, what time she recapitulated her argument. “But how?” he exclaimed, in exasperation “Tell me how?” “That is for you to discover, Caron.” He thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and set himself to pace the chamber. And now his fingers came in contact with something foreign. Idly he drew it forth, and it proved to be the phial Mother Capoulade had given him, and from which he had poured the ten drops for the Captain's sleeping potion. His eyes brightened with inspiration. Here was a tool whose possibilities were vast. Then his brows were knit again. “Wait,” he said slowly. “Let me think.” CHAPTER XI. THE ESCAPE Resting his elbow on the table, and with his hand to his brow, Caron sat deep in thought, his forefinger and thumb pressed against his closed eyelids. From beyond the board Mademoiselle watched him anxiously and waited. At last he looked up. “I think I have it,” he announced, rising. “You say that the men are drinking heavily. That should materially assist us.” She asked him what plan he had conceived, but he urged that time pressed; she should know presently; meanwhile, she had best return immediately to her carriage. He went to the door to call Guyot, but she stayed him. “No, no, Monsieur,” she exclaimed. “I will not pass through the common-room again in that fellow's company. They are all in there, carousing, and--and I dare not.” As if to confirm her words, now that he held the door open, he caught some sounds of mirth and the drone of voices from below. “Come with me, then,” said he, taking up one of the candles. “I will escort you.” Together they descended the narrow staircase, La Boulaye going first, to guide her, since two might not go abreast. At the foot there was a door, which he opened, and then, at the end of a short passage--in which the drone of voices sounded very loud and in particular one, cracked voice that was raised in song--they gained the door of the common-room. As La Boulaye pushed it open they came upon a scene of Bacchanalian revelry. On a chair that had been set upon the table they beheld Mother Capoulade enthroned like a Goddess of Liberty, and wearing a Phrygian cap on her dishevelled locks. Her yellow cheeks were flushed and her eyes watery, whilst hers was the crazy voice that sang. Around the table, in every conceivable attitude of abandonment, sat Captain Charlot's guard--every man of the ten--and with them the six men and the corporal of La Boulaye's escort, all more or less in a condition of drunkenness.